Fortune's Lady (34 page)

She turned to him in shock. “But you said I could stay! You said you
wanted
me to stay.”

Riordan growled like a goaded animal. As if sensing his danger, Wade took another step back. “But your husband wants you to go with him,” he said placatingly, “and I'm afraid his wishes take precedence over mine.”

She drew in a hissing breath. “My
husband
!”

“Indeed, my dear—he's your lord and master now, much as I wish it were otherwise. But a wager's a wager; and more important, a marriage is a marriage, however unorthodox the ceremony.”

She closed her eyes, realizing she could expect no help from Wade. But she'd known that anyway. It suited his purpose to make her go with Riordan; he wanted the information he thought she could extract from him. Her hands clenched into fists. And Quinn wanted the information she could extract from Wade. She had as much control of her own life as a newborn baby! When was it going to matter what
she
wanted? She took a deep breath, summoning what little dignity she had left. “You won't let me stay, then?”

Wade shook his head, eyeing Riordan's snarling, almost feral countenance warily.

Her shoulders sagged. She shifted her gaze to Riordan, taking note of the barely controlled violence in his posture. Ought she to be afraid of him? She supposed she would find out. “Then it seems I have no choice.” She jerked back when his hand came up to take her arm. “But don't touch me,” she warned in a voice full of loathing. “Don't you dare touch me.” Bewilderment replaced the rage in his face for a split second. Their eyes met and clashed in silent combat until he lowered his arm slowly and stood back to let her pass. She sidled around, careful not to brush against him, as if the very thought of touching him disgusted her. “Good-bye, Colin,” she murmured. She wanted to tell him she would see him soon, but something warned her not to push her luck.

“
Au revoir
, Cass,” he drawled, sounding faintly amused, or pretending to. “I'll let Martin show the two of you out.”

Outside, a storm was coming. The late afternoon air was a sickly yellow-green under black, rolling clouds, and there was a quality in the atmosphere of coiled violence. A gust of wind hit them before they'd gone a dozen paces, nearly knocking Cass over. Riordan reached out and tried to steady her. She pulled away instinctively and he cursed, but his words were lost on the hissing wind. She trudged along, head down, half-blinded by grit and cinders, until another blast literally blew her into a lamp post. Her hip bone throbbed; she muttered a curse of her own. She fought him when he tried to take hold of her again, batting his hands away, kicking out at his shins. He took her by the shoulders and shook her, hard. Then the rain came.

Huge, pelting drops that struck with the force of hurled eggs drenched them in seconds. He tried to drag her into a doorway for shelter, but she shoved him away. Bent nearly double, she waded into the wind and water, intent on nothing but forward movement. With the wanton violence of a squall at sea, the elements battered at her and blew her along, while inside another kind of storm raged.

At last the house loomed ahead. Her sodden skirts were heavy against her legs as she slogged up the steps. Riordan threw open the door and she hurried past him into the hall. The sudden quiet after the roar of the storm was uncanny. She kept going, heading for the staircase.

“Stop! Damn you, Cass, put one foot on that step and you'll regret it!”

His anger increased hers tenfold. She got two defiant steps up before his hands on her hips hauled her back and shoved her against the newell post without gentleness.

“What will you do, beat me?” she shouted, pushing the heavy, wet hair out of her eyes. “Or take a broken bottle to me, like you did to your friend Quinn?”

He went very still, his eyes as cold as shards of blue marble, and for the first time she felt truly afraid. He saw it and took his hands away. Water dripped steadily from his hair into his face. “I'm only going to say this once. Don't ever go near Wade again. Do you understand that? I don't want to hurt him, but I will. As for Claudia—” she made an inarticulate sound and tried to escape, but he reached for her again and held her still—“as for Claudia, I'm sorry you misinterpreted what you saw this afternoon. It was a kiss of friendship, nothing more. I would have explained that to you if you'd given me the chance and not gone running to Wade like a—” He stopped, visibly controlling himself.

Claudia! He thought she was mad about Claudia! It almost made her laugh. “Are you finished?”

“No! Claudia is my friend, damn it. I won't let your jealousy spoil that. I don't intend to avoid her, and I expect you to be civil to her when we meet, as we're bound to do.”

For some reason this made her angrier than anything. “I'll do more than be civil, Philip, I'll be magnanimous. She can have you! Go to her, she's all yours! I can't stand the sight of either one of you!” She wrenched out of his grip and started up the stairs again. He was right behind her.

“Excuse me, sir. Cook asked if you and Mrs. Riordan are still planning to dine at seven o'clock.”

The servant in the foyer sounded nervous. He jumped when the master turned on him with a barked “No! Get out!” and scurried down the hall the way he'd come.

Riordan caught Cass in the middle of the darkened upstairs hallway. “God damn it, you wait a minute! You're going to talk to me, here and now, and we're going to settle—”

“You shut up!” she threw back, incensed. “I'm not doing anything but leaving. Let go of my arm!”

“Leaving for where? Why?”

“Anywhere! Just so it's away from you! I have plenty of money, I'll take a room somewhere.”

“Like hell you will. I forbid it. You're my wife!”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Stop it! Liar!”

“What am I lying about? What?”

“You know! Take your hands off me or I'll start screaming and never stop! I can't bear to look at you!”

She jerked away again and plunged down the hall into their room. Someone had lit candles and thoughtfully turned down the bedspread. Her box wasn't unpacked yet, she saw with relief; she went to it and threw open the top. She heard him in the doorway but didn't look up. Where was the pink bodice she'd sewn the—there it was, at the bottom. Biting her lips, she ripped open the side seam and took out her money—eight hundred and thirty pounds, ten shillings.

She shook it in his face. “This is mine! I worked hard for every penny of it. Now I'm leaving and there's nothing you can do to stop me. I'll see Colin Wade anytime I want. I'll report to Quinn, not you. I don't ever want to see you again.”

“Why?” He felt like tearing his hair.

“Because you're a liar and a cheat and a bastard! My God, Philip, how could you
do
it?” Oh lord, she was going to cry. She spun around and began to stuff the money into her purse. “Thank God I don't need you, Riordan,” she muttered jerkily. “I can support myself perfectly well.”

“You're not leaving.”

“Like hell,” she spat, mimicking him. She tried to step around him, but he moved when she did and she couldn't get by. “Will you get out of my way?”

He shook his head. “You're going nowhere.” Before she could react, he snatched the purse from her fingers and withdrew the crumpled notes.

She let out a horrified shriek. “Don't you dare— Philip, stop!”

Holding his arms high so she couldn't reach, he tore the money in half, then again. Cass took three steps back and screamed. Tattered hundred-pound notes fluttered to the floor like confetti.

Stunned, she stared down at the scattered scraps of paper at her feet, then backed up to sit numbly on the edge of the bed. “My money,” she whispered, holding her throat, staring at nothing. “All my money. Oh, God.”

Riordan ignored the need to take her in his arms, knowing what she would do if he tried. He was nearly as shocked by the violence of his act as she, although he didn't regret it. He looked down at her bent head and pale, stricken face. He said her name quietly; she winced.

“Listen to me, Cass.” His voice sounded raw and exhausted. “I don't understand what's wrong. But you can't leave. We have to work this out. Not tonight—too much has been said. You can have this room tonight; I'll sleep in the guest room next door.” He closed his eyes against a sudden, graphic vision of the night he'd planned for them, her first in his home, and kept talking. “If it's what you want, I'll allow you to see Wade. You can pretend you're deceiving me and meet him from time to time. But carefully watched, and always in public places. And only for the purpose of exchanging information. As for us, as soon as we both calm down, we're—”

She shot to her feet. If contempt had a color, it was the shade of gray her eyes were now—the pale, cold, gleaming gray of granite after a winter rain. “There is no
us
,” she spat, her lips curling over the word. “I will never sleep in this room. If you ever try to touch me again, I'll have you arrested.” His angry snort brought two red spots to her cheeks. “As for Colin Wade, I'll see him wherever I want, as often as I want. Now, get out of my way.”

He considered several alternatives, some violent, some not. Having the last word took on an abnormal importance. “I'm your husband; you'll do as I say.” But when she pushed past him, he let her go.

In the doorway she turned. “You're not my husband and you can rot in hell.” The last word meant a lot to her, too.

He heard her move down the hall to the guest room and slam the door. After that, there was silence. The days that followed were the most miserable either of them had ever lived through. Cass literally couldn't bear to look at him, and the sight of her hostile, closed countenance dampened any interest Riordan had in putting things right between them. When he forced himself to try anyway, they always fought. “What the bloody hell have I
done
?” he thundered at her once after a strained and silent dinner. It didn't seem possible that merely kissing Claudia could have brought on this catastrophe. “Damn it, Cass, you're my wife!”

She stood up so fast her chair tipped over backwards and crashed to the floor. “Don't you call me that!” she cried, cheeks blazing. “How dare you? I'm living in your house, taking my meals here and sleeping in one of your beds. But don't you ever call this sham I'm forced to endure a marriage!”

After that, they spoke hardly at all.

She stayed in her room most of the time, reading or sewing or staring at the blue floral wallpaper. She wrote, too, in her journal, and began to look upon the activity as the one thing that was keeping her sane. Clara came, but there was little for her to do; her mistress hardly ever went out. She hardly ever ate, either, and the maid scolded her repeatedly until Cass lost patience and sent her away with harsh words. She saw Wade infrequently. Sometimes she went to his house unannounced and unescorted, deliberately to defy Riordan, and heedless of the bitter words that always came afterward. But usually she met him someplace neutral, a bench in Green Park or the back of a Fleet Street bookstore, with Clara never very far away, where she neither gave nor received any information of much use. Once, however, Wade hinted that the king wasn't his target anymore, to her utter consternation. If that were true, it meant they were back exactly where they'd started. But when she gave Riordan the news and told him she thought she ought to see Wade more frequently in order to learn the new object of his machinations, he only got angry and forbade it—as usual. Sometimes she wondered if she cared more about thwarting Wade than he did.

Riordan stayed away from the house as much as he could. He breakfasted in coffeehouses, where his friends gathered to talk and read the newspapers, and in the afternoons he met with his committees. At night he went to his club, where he plotted strategies and campaigns with his political cronies for the new term coming up in the House.

At home he went around in a baffled rage, snarling at the servants and staring fixedly at Cass when she made one of her rare appearances, searching for a clue to the dark mystery of why they were living like this. How had it happened? The magic days and nights after their wedding seemed to have happened to two other people. He didn't even recognize her anymore as the sweet, bewitching girl who had monopolized his thoughts and dreams for months. She was pale and thin, and she moved about the house like a wraith, disappearing swiftly when he surprised her in a room, or suffering his presence behind a frozen wall of silence that shut him out completely. He couldn't even make her yell at him anymore, and he would have preferred anything over this wan, speechless quiet. He listened every night in his room for a sound from her, only a few feet away beyond the wall. The rare creak of a floorboard or the rasp of a chair leg was ridiculously comforting after an hour or more of wondering if she was really there at all.

He could still remember why he'd married her, although his reasons no longer seemed relevant. A few months ago he'd thought his salvation lay with a woman like Claudia; he'd believed a life of the intellect was his noblest destiny, the surest means to effect the kinds of changes he wanted to bring about in the world. Then Cass came along and taught him that wasn't enough. He'd been subverting his nature to an idea, an abstraction. Because of her, he understood that passion was part of him, a good and necessary part, and that he needed her to make him whole. But in the end it was her courage, her willingness to sacrifice herself to a cause Claudia paid only lip service to that had made him love Cass, made him certain she was the woman for him, for his life.

But something had gone terribly wrong. Her enmity was so strong, he'd lost the heart to confront her. Or not yet, not yet. He could see she was in pain, but so was he. He needed to lick his wounds a little longer.